


Robyn Hood ; Queen of Thieves

by Lore55



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dead animals, Female Protagonist, Freedom Fighters, Gen, Hunting, Middle Ages, Near Death Experiences, Queen of Thieves, Rebellion, Robin Hood - Freeform, Robin Hood References
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2020-01-04 07:22:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18338885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lore55/pseuds/Lore55
Summary: Accused of witchcraft in a changing world Roseline is left with no choice but leave Loxley behind and run, into the wood. Rescued by a gentle giant named John Roseline, called Robyn, finds that she can't stand by while the people are suffering. With quiet steps and a deadly aim she takes up arms against the Sheriff and his men, gathering a band of damaged and desperate people behind her. It will be a new beginning, or an end for them all.





	Robyn Hood ; Queen of Thieves

**Author's Note:**

> idk what to say except I thought Robin Hood would be interesting if he was a girl instead. So here ya go

It was bright. So bright it stung her eyes and hurt her head. Or perhaps it was the water stinging her eyes and the stone floor of the river than did all that.

She was being tossed around, her limbs twisted violently behind her back and along her side. The light vanished and something rough, wood, more stone, she didn’t know, smashed into her back. What little air was left was forced out of her chest, making way for water to invade her mouth and nose.

Fire flickered in front of her face when another blow sent her hurling upwards, towards the surface. Her hair. Fitting, for a Rose.

Rosaline fought against the current, tried to make her limbs obey her to no avail. With the loss of her last breath the break in the way, so close and so far, was a torturous promise of life that her thick skirts were ripping away from her.

Her dress weighted her down, soaked through, making it impossible to fight back as it tangled with her legs until they wouldn’t move.

Another flip, another blow to her brow and she was no longer sure if the red was her hair or her blood.

The light of the surface was turning hazy and dark. Blackness crept into the edges of Rosaline’s vision. Her chest was screaming, her nose and throat burned for air that she could not give them.

Rosaline was starting to lose the feeling in her finger tips. Her toes. Was her hand clenched into a fist? Did she have her thumb inside or outside? She coughed out water to bring more in, allowing a few bubbles to explode in front of her eyes.

Something sharp stuck her leg, ripped into her skirt and yanked so hard it snapped her neck around. Very far away she could hear a groan and a splash. The water around the girl surged until she found herself expelled, thrown out of the water in a great gushing wave until her body, weak from water and hunger, slapped wetly against stone.

Rosaline coughed. Vomited water and coughed again. Her eyes were glued shut with pain and tears that mingled with the water. Her throat was raw yet she hacked further, expelled more water. A puddle of it, warmed by her body spread out around her head.

She was too exhausted to feel disgust.

There was just enough room cleared inside of her chest to make way for air, blessed air that blasted painfully with the water she was still heaving out of her body. Her limbs would not lift to assist, her mind, traitorous as it was, tried to drag her into darkness.

Death or sleep she could not be sure.

She did not want to find out.

The girl struggled, fighting to move anything. An arm, a hand, even a finger. Her body was unresponsive.

Terror gripped hard at her heart, squeezing it with an icy grip. She couldn’t die now. Not after all that had happened.

Her fate, in accordance with the priest, was a pyre. It seemed now that God had decided water would work just as well for a witch.

Rosaline could no longer tell if she was crying or just shuddering with expelling water and cold. At least her body moved some, even if it was not of her own accord.

Darkness pulled relentlessly at her mind, offering a horrible, frightening, comforting embrace. Just slip in and she wouldn’t have to worry about the water or the fire or the lack of food in her belly anymore. Just relax…

Something small scuffed by her head. Near silent. When nothing else happened right away she was sure it had been her addled mind playing cruel tricks, tempting her to the outside world rather than the bliss of her inner shadowed sanctum.

Then pain erupted on her ear harsh enough to make her gurgle a shriek and spit foul water and bile into the hard stone beneath her cheek. A loud cry echoed so much near her head she thought she might loss hearing entirely. It was crow, biting at her ear!

It had been trying to eat her while she still lived.

Terror surged through her, raw and unbridled. It spiked her energy, so low it hardly existed, enough that she leveed herself onto her hands, then her knees. Water burst for from her lips, horrible hacking coughs shook her frame as the girl tried to rid herself of the last of it.

Finally, finally, her eyes peeled open. It felt as if a thousand tiny hawthorn pricks had been pressed behind her eye lids. Through the stinging she got a look at where she was. It was a bit rock at the edge of the river, risen high and swirling rough from the snow-melt. Still it lapped at the edge of her sanctuary, threatening her from daring drink again.

Where her rock was not sealed into the earth rose tall trees, casting soft green shadows onto the soil bellow. Grass and brambles edged the river, up until a gap of tilled soil that marked when the river had ripped away the plants that had once made sanctuary there. To her left, at the rim of the rock a crow was perched, something hanging from its beak. Rosaline realized with a roll of horror that it was strip of her ear.

The girl heaved out one final burst of water and spit, repeatedly, the bile from her throat. She would not burn. She would not drown. She would not be eaten by a blackbird.

She would live.

With determination burning inside of her head Roseline surged to her feet, sucking in a great gulp of air.

And promptly fell back to her knees.

The rock she had washed up on was large, spread out beneath her the size of a horse cart. Water had worn it away until it was soft, leaving no roughness to tear her apart when she landed. That didn’t stop her knees from splitting on impact, more blood to stain what little stone her head, now spinning, and leg had left bare.

Stars did dances in front of her eyes, nearly blocking out the grey that blurred into green at the edges of the large stone. The sound of leaves and dirt crunched and twisted to her right.

Rosaline tried to twist to see but it only made the stars worse. Her head throbbed, forwards and back. Blood dripped through her hair and across her forehead until it was falling into her eyes and stinging further.

She couldn’t see but she could hear the movement. Too big for a rabid. The bird was gone. Deer were quieter and had four limbs.

Two legs. Lots of weight, however well distributed it was. A person.

Her brother had taught her since she was young how to hunt, how to tell what was in the world around her. Even with her muddled brain somethings never changed. Her shoulders grew tense. Had they sent a search party after her head?

She had just escaped death, would it still come for her? Was there no mistake?

The footsteps touched the rock and she lashed out, catching a trunk of a leg before her other arm gave out and she collapsed on the rock. Words so foul her mother would have slapped her face off for fell from the girls mouth, staggered out by hoarse coughing.

A low, deep hum emanated from above her. “You’ll hurt yourself, little one,” came the warning.

Rosaline blinked up at the shadow cast over her form, squinting. When a hand didn’t yank her up by her hair she let herself take a minute to draw in breath, close her eyes until they cleared. When they opened again she swallowed thickly.

Looming above her, a staff tucked under one arm, was a great giant of a man.

_**Robyn** _

The fire was warm on her frigid skin. With her hair piled on top of her head and held there by a cord given by a giant it left her to warm and dry in a borrowed tunic. It was so long on her it might as well have been a gown, passing down far past her knees.

Rosaline’s arms were wrapped around her legs, her eyes lingering on the fire. It flickered in front of her, gold was cast into green. Every now and again she would blow a tune into it, whistling to watch the sparks dance. Songs of the people, songs of the birds.

Across the fire the giant, who called himself John, was stitching up the long, jagged tear in her skirt. His crosses were small, precise and perfect. Far better than any of the ones she had ever managed to bring about.

The bleeding on her leg and head had finally stopped, with ripped up clothes wrapped tight around them both until she was sure her foot was going to turn blue from it.

“What’s your name, Little One?” John asked. It was the first thing he’d said since the sun had gone down. He was a quiet man, but kind. He had treated her hurts and given her a place to warm her frozen fingers. Now he was fixing her destroyed dress.

Rosaline had never met someone so nice. It was bewildering.

After all that had happened in the past few days she didn’t know what to think. The people she had known her entire life had turned on her for picking flowers and now this man, who had seen her half drowned had helped her when he could have done a dozen other things.

He had no reason to assist some girl washed up from the Maun.

Which did nothing to explain why she was in his campsite, wrapped up in his clothes, her belly filled with his food. She had been waiting for him to ask something in return for a long time.

Her name was not the first question she thought she might hear.

She would have told him but. But, Loxley was close, far too close. A witch was not something that was taken lightly anymore. It was bizarre, no one had cared about sorcery in the past, when she was growing up the local witch was Gilian, a benevolent being who was loved by all. Her potions were sought after for everything from stomach aches to fighting couples.

Then some new movement had started brewing on the continent. A paranoia.

Witches were no longer the kind herb pickers or the crazy, but harmless, devil-tongued. Now they were dangerous, frightening creatures to get rid of. And she was the town’s only one left to blame on the swarm of fevers that were stealing so many children.

She did not know John enough to know if he would turn her over to the men of the cloth who swore her to be the root of the sickness. Did not know if he had been caught up with ‘progress’ of the church minded. She dared not risk it. So she stared at him. She hadn’t said a word the entire time, aside from the curses at her perceived death. There didn’t seem to be a point to, with John so quiet himself.

The quiet man was still watching her, waiting.

Waiting. He would be waiting a long time. She was tense as a frightened rabbit, ready to run on her hurt leg if it came down to it.

Eventually, John looked back to her skirt, going on with his mending.

“Alright,” he said simply.

That was the end of it. No pushing, no pressing. Rosaline pushed her face into her knees. Her eyes still hurt. They were no doubt red and swollen. How unpleasant she must look, like a wild animal he’d fished from the river rather than a girl.

Her father would be so disappointed, were he not locked behind the wall of the jail. All in her defense. Her brother too had tried to object, tried to convince them that she was innocent but it was for nothing, and he had met the worse fate.

Hung at dawn, the day she fled. Not even six days passed by since his neck had felt the rope and his feet had kissed the air instead of the soft soil of the forest he loved so much.

Her grip tightened. How could they? He was just being a brother, her Ricard. Defending his family until the end, was that not what men were meant to do?

She didn’t understand what this world was becoming. When she was young witchcraft was necessary. Growing up nothing was seen wrong with it. Attitudes were shifting, the church was calling dangerous words to its followers and Rosaline didn’t know what she was meant to do.

It wasn’t safe for anyone anymore. Between the alterations in tolerance and what was acceptable and the changes in the tax, the country was in trouble.

Ever since their good king had gone off to war Prince John was pushing everyone for more. For things that they did not have. Even those well enough off to hire extra field hands were cutting back with the strain put upon their purses.

Ricard’s Matheu hadn’t been able to pay his taxes that year because there was no one with money enough to hire him. Why? Why was this all happening? Couldn’t Prince John see what he was doing?

The world was being stacked against those many without title.

No one who could change it seemed to care. If their King would only come home he would fix everything and it would all go back to the way it was supposed to be. No more witch trials, no more tax increases.

Rosaline shook her head into her knees. Such wishful thinking would get her nowhere. Being reckless would do the same thing, as shown by her disregard for the powers of nature earlier that day. She needed to be more careful or she might not be as lucky as she had been.

Movement across the fire had the girls head snapping right back up to find her giant of a companion standing, her dress in one gargantuan hand.    

She watched him lift it to a branch that she wouldn’t have a chance of reaching, and drape the still-wet fabric across until it was spread and smooth. No wrinkles would come from a job like that. When it was secure on the bark of the tree John turned back to the little girl wearing his clothes.

“You can stay the night,” he informed her. She didn’t ask him to elaborate. When daybreak rose she was in charge of herself once more.

Rosaline uttered her first sentence since the sun had vanished over the tree tops.

“Thank you, John,” she said, soft and genuine. She was grateful for his help. Without it, she didn’t know where she would be.

The great giant merely inclined his head, quiet once more.

_**Hood** _

When dawn broke Rosaline took her leave from the campsite. It was small, nestled in the crevice of two large rocks, far enough from the Maun to be safe from floods but close enough to get water. A bridge, so thin a horse could never set across it, was visible from a gap in the brambles that wrapped around the cleared space. It was clear from the set up and the well tramped earth that John had been there for some time.

Was he truly a giant, living in the forests? Or a druid, trying to protect them?

 She didn’t know. Looked at the soft rise and fall of his chest she did know that it was none of her concern, and it never would be.

She also knew, at least, that she had to repay him some way. So she forwent her dress, which would be a hindrance in the thick underbrush, and set off, covered only in the borrowed tunic.

With her mind made up, Rosaline set off to the thin bridge, hoping it might take her out of the forest and into Nottingham. Across the Maun she could see a beaten path, not a road. More of a deer trail. Regardless, if she followed it it would lead her somewhere. So she picked up her skirts and set off at a trot, barefoot. Somewhere in that river one of her shoes had been lost, and the other was so water logged it was threatening to come apart. Barefoot would do just fine.

The ground was soft beneath her feet, pliant and damp. It was perfect for little bugs and tiny plants to get a hold of life in, both of which she kept an eye out for. She didn’t fancy having a worm squirm between her toes, thank you very much.

As she went, across the slim bridge and father into the thick, reaching trees of Sherwood, she watched the ground. Every now and again she would pick up a stone, perfectly round and not too big, or small. By the time she had a pocket full of them she had reached a smaller creek, a run off from the Maun no doubt.

Water meant life, and life meant Game.

Specifically, woodcock. They were small, plentiful, and easy shots. All you had to do, was wait.

They weren’t like pheasant, which were tricky and smart as the devil, or deer, which were too big for mere stones or a single person. Woodcock would do nicely for a repayment for the food she’d had last night. Now that she had time to slow down, and stop running from crazed townsfolk, she might get one of her own. Start a fire.

She just had to take it one step at a time.

The girl sunk low into the wet river bank, staying crouched on her haunches and perfectly still. When she was young and her brother was teaching her to hunt it was always Rosaline who had the patience to wait, no matter how little she could feel her legs or how hot the sun burned across her fair skin.

Ricard had once said she had patience to put Saints to shame.

Their mother had nearly beaten his hide off for such insolence, considering it was said in the church itself. Rosaline blinked quickly at the sudden burn in her eyes.

She had to stop. She could not weep every time she thought of her brother or she would waste her life away on tears and sorrow. That was not something she could do, not after all that had happened. She would survive, the way Ricard and Mateu, and her father had wanted her to.

She had to.

Shadows shortened as the sun arched higher in the sky, until it was burning off the morning dew and peering over top the highest branches of Sherwood. Morning was the best time to catch birds like this. Before the mist was gone, and they all went into hiding.

A stone was in her hand, and her eyes were trained on the ground before her. With a bush at her back and the wind coming towards her face it was perfect conditions. The tunic was even green.  

She waited.

Eventually, they came. Deer, small birds. Hares even. In fact, they would be better.

Moving slowly, silently, Rosaline slipped her hand into her pocket and fished out another small stone, perfect for flinging. In, out. She had to be quick, quicker than the hares. An impossible feat.

One rock flew. Before it even made contact the other was in her hand and on its way to the pair of hares that had appeared on the bank, along with other creatures. All could be eaten but those were the easiest to clean and prepare, with the smallest, least likely to fragment bones.

Unless they were bone fragments into the brain from a broken head. Like her two hare’s now could have. With their deaths the rest of the animals went running, and with no need to stay quiet anymore, she pushed herself to her feet and moved to collect her catch. Luckily they were on this side of the stream, for there was no way she was getting close to water again.  Not unless it was just to drink.

She always loved how soft rabbit fur was. Around the legs that she had to carry the creatures with it was especially nice to touch. She had never had the skill to do it herself but Mateu had always sworn to make her a cloak lined with their furs, if she brought in enough of them.

Now Mateu, like Ricard, was dead. Killed with the one he adored so much. They had been bound in a spiritual brotherhood by the bishop not three summers past, and for all the years that she had lived with them she knew they had never violated the rules that came with the union.

They had lived together, a huntsmen and a field hand, until the end of their days.

Her hold on the rabbits tightened and Rosaline tried desperately to let go of the grief that tried to suffocate her. Woods were no place for mourning. No place at all.

Her feet skipped over the deer trail when she was distracted and when next she emerged into a cap of the trees it was a bend in the large road the offered passage through Sherwood. Beaten down and stamped over years into hard dirt the path had been worn into the ground, a good jump down from the trees. It was narrowly large enough for a cart to fit with a horse at one side, but it was the best, and only road there was to get through the wood.

This morning, it was occupied by a disturbing sight.

Rosaline saw men, dressed in the black uniforms of Nottingham Guard, those that upheld the Sheriff’s fair law and enforced punishment on those that broke it. A congregation of them, around the prone form of some poor sob, tarnished in rags. Their legs were working. It took the girl a moment to process the fact that they were kicking the person on the ground.

Something hot and dangerous erupted in her chest. What crime could have warranted such cruelty?

With both hand occupied by game the girl walked out of the woods, towards the harsh creatures ahead of her. She must have made quite a sight, bare from the knees down, covered in dirt, blood and scratches. With her hair knotted and matted on the top of her head she must had looked like some feral Green Man.

Whatever she looked like, it was enough to startle one of the Guard into taking a step back.

Rosaline lifted her voice, still hoarse from all the water the night before.

“What crime has he committed?” she demanded. It sounded like she was speaking around a stone caught in the back of her throat. It felt that way too.

The tallest of the three men, lacking any type of helm, turned to her first. It was a foolish thing to do, she figured, to leave one’s head open like that. She knew that they were given out protection, so why did they not use it?

A dark part of her suggested it was because no one ever made them need it.

“He can’t pay the travelling tax,” the Guard said, levelling her with a cold, disgusted look. Like she was a rat picking at his garbage.

A Travelling Tax! There was no such thing, or else they would have been enforcing it before the day. Even if there was one it was hardly fair to invent it when there were so many people struggling to get anything at all right now. This would only make it worse for tradesmen and those who needed to transport their craft to market or demand.

Rosaline’s jaw set. She lifted both rabbits into the air.

“Would these cover what he can’t pay?” she quizzed. Her throat hurt terribly speaking. It wasn’t this bad the night before.

A second Guard barked a harsh laugh. “Those scrawny things? They won’t cover for him and they won’t cover for you either!”

Her brows furrowed in bewilderment. “Cover me?”

“You really must be stupid. Or crazy,” the third said.

The first joined in, “A mad forest skip. Thinks rabbits is gold. Thinks they’re freed of Law.”

“Mad,” the second crowed. “None travel these forests without the fee, not even the Mad. You’ll ‘ave to pay with something… your hide, should do well enough.”

The estimation had the other two nodding along their agreement, looking at each other. Rosaline’s stomach rolled at the smiles there were starting for form. Sickness in their eyes when they drew small blades from their belts. Who had let them become lawmen?

When one took a step at her she reacted. Flung one of the hare’s at him and the other at one of his cohorts. The remaining man pitched himself at her. She dove to the right, her eyes on a large rock, the size of her fist.

As soon as her fingers were around it she spun around and let it fly, catching the man hard on his throat. He dropped to the ground, gasping and holding a hand over the newly leaking blood.

The hares had only been a brief distraction, now there were too more men rushing at her, blades drawn. She was armless, and armorless. Those things would mean the death of her.

So she did the only thing she could do.

She ran.

Up the side of the road, into the trees she went, as fast as her feet would carry her. Rosaline had never been a slow girl but these men were fast. Too fast and she was far too slow, hurt as she was. She could hear the stamping of their feet behind her. Gaining on her.

The deer path erupted before her and Rosaline took a sharp turn, spinning on her heel. She only needed a second to take aim to fell another of the men with two small stones, one to an eye and the other to the throat. He was expecting it, and managed to duck both of them, taking the worst of it onto a cheek.  

Unfortunately, the time it took her to yank the second projectile out of her pocket was enough time for one of the others to get close enough to take a swing at her head. She ducked.

Or, more accurately, stumbled back onto her rear end.

The blade raised high in the air, light shining off of it. Rosaline bared her teeth. Her heart was pounding hard in her chest, her head was throbbing along with her eyes, beating with every leap of her pulse. With her skirt torn apart and riding up around her middle it was easy to lift her legs and smash them both between her assailants.

He dropped.

Gasping, crying, it wasn’t going to slow him long. His face was red with pain and rage. Rage fueled people. Anger pushed on. Rosaline filled a fist with sones and brought it down upon the side of his head. Hard.

He went still.

The last was coming from the side and she didn’t have time to roll away or get ready to defend herself. The tip of the knife swung cross ways towards her throat. Death was coming for her for the third time in four days.

Once again, it didn’t reach her.

There was a dull sound of wood on flesh and the guard was collapsing on the ground. As his shadow vanished Rosaline found herself in the shadows of another man, a kinder man.

John.

The Giant looked over her mess, the dead man and the unconscious one. She was torn up from the brambles and the dirt, blood was leaking again from her leg.

“Woman are not supposed to kill.” There was something in his eyes that made her think he was not entirely serious with his statement.

Rosaline lifted her chin to meet his eyes squarely. “By the Book none shall kill, yet we permit butchers and hunters to make places in our towns, to thrive. The King holds a slew of Soldiers and Executioners. What difference does it make for a killer to be a man or a woman?”

He was watching her. Brown eyes, flecked with darker shades, held tightly to her green. He didn’t look away. She didn’t back down. Finally, the giant leaned on his staff, his hard features softening from stone to wood.

“If you can catch game, you are free to remain in my camp. So long as you contribute,” he said. It was the longest sentence she had heard from her kind giant yet. It brought a sort of smile to her face, lifted some of the mourning and dirt from her cheeks.

“Thank you, John,” she said once more.

“You are welcome, Little Robyn.”

His address startled her. The girl drew up, blinked thrice.

“Robin?” she repeated. Robin. She was not a bird, she was a Rose. Though she hadn’t ever told him that.  

“Your head is red as a robin’s breast and you whistle like a bird. I’ve nothing else to call you. Robyn.” The record for longest sentence was broken, in such a short time. It made her feel strangely accomplished.

The new name brought a funny warm feeling to her chest and cheeks. “Robyn, then. Robyn of Sherwood.”

“You are not of Sherwood,” he reminded her. His deep voice was hard again. Insistent. He did not like her claiming that title.

Rosaline, Robyn, had too much respect for the man to go against his wishes, so she inclined her head subversively. As he wished. Had she ever said where she was from?

“Robyn of Loxley.”


End file.
